


It Wasn't Just A Phase

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clothing, Getting Together, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t that Phil Coulson had never seen a sweater before, it was just that, well, his eyes had never before been assaulted by one so violently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Wasn't Just A Phase

**Author's Note:**

> No trigger warnings. Happy holidays, people!

Phil Coulson had seen the pictures, of course. It seemed like just about everyone who’d worked with Clint had. They were all in his SHIELD file, and even if they hadn’t been, after the Battle of New York it seemed like you could hardly go on the internet without somehow stumbling across an image of a teenage Clint Barton decked out in bright purple spandex. (Maybe that was just an issue Phil had, though.)

The only thing was that, well, Phil had always thought that someone had forced him to wear that ridiculous costume. After all, who in their right mind would voluntarily wear such a horribly garish shade of purple? And this didn’t even have anything to do with Phil adhering to the stereotypes about gay men and fashion – Clint’s outfit had been legitimately horrifying. 

So when Phil Coulson first saw Clint Barton outside of official SHIELD business, he just about had a heart attack. (Which really wasn’t good, considering how he’d just gotten out of the hospital from being stabbed thorough the chest by Loki.)

It wasn’t that Phil had never seen a sweater before, it was just that, well, his eyes had never before been assaulted by one so violently. It was honestly the most god awful monstrosity that he had ever seen, and he had an aunt who owned a light up, music playing, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer sweater. 

Phil just kind of stood there for a while, staring with a sort of disbelieving, glazed look on his face. Clint seemed to be saying something to him – something about the minimum amount of paperwork he was required to do, probably – but none of that mattered to Phil at the moment. Nothing mattered other than that atrocity against clothing that could in no way actually be classified as an article of clothing with its magenta splotches, pollen yellow polka dots, and some sort of knitted pattern that vaguely resembled a gingerbread man. 

“Uh, Sir? Earth to Coulson,” a voice broke into Phil’s thoughts, breaking him out of his horror induced coma. 

“Sorry Barton. What were you saying?” Phil asked, clearing his throat and tearing his eyes away from Clint’s shirt to look him in the eyes.

“I was just wondering how you recovery’s going,” Clint said, a half smile on his face, but concern evident in his expression. “Are you feeling okay? You’re looking kind of out of it…”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine,” Phil replied, forcing his most polite smile. “I’ve just had a long day.”

“Oh. I better let you get home, then,” Clint answered, his tone sounding strangely dejected. “Thanks for the, uh, paperwork.” 

“Anytime, Agent,” Phil said, a little sarcastically, his smile becoming a little more real. 

He left the tower as quickly as he possibly could, not even glancing at the archer’s sweater-thing again. Seeing it once was more than enough for a lifetime. Phil shuddered again at the mere thought of the monstrosity and hoped fervently that this fashion trend was just a one off. 

\---

It wasn’t. God, it wasn’t. The next time Phil Coulson saw Clint Barton outside of official SHIELD business was two weeks later, when he needed to drop some documents off some documents for Captain America. The archer was lounging on the largest couch in the communal living room, stretched out like a contented cat, planes of tanned skin peeking out from under the hem of his rumpled shirt –

That fucking shirt. That goddamn, hideous, cornea burning, cringe worthy, devil of a thing which looked as if it had been presented to Clint by the devil himself, rising out of the deepest pits of hell. 

He needed to burn it. He needed to fucking _burn it_ right this fucking minute. Scratch that, he needed to go back in time and destroy it before it had ever been conceived. It shouldn’t ever have been given the right to exist, much less drape itself over the golden skin of the World’s Greatest Marksman. Even Clint’s old circus costume was preferable to this – this _thing_. 

At that very moment, Phil made his decision. He’d found a new mission in life, and goddamn it, no one was going to get in his way. 

\---

Phil stared down at the sweater in his hands – a _real_ sweater this time – and ran his fingertips over its soft fabric. It was a sedate gray color, not so light that it would clash with the dark bronze of Clint’s skin, but not so dark that it would look like all of the other SHIELD issue black uniform garments that Clint wore everyday for work. The fabric itself was perfect, durable yet as soft as what he imagined a wispy cloud would feel like. The stitching was immaculate, and although Phil didn’t know Clint’s exact measurements, he’d seen the archer shirtless enough times (at medical and on missions that had gone south) that he was able to guess at Clint’s shirt size fairy accurately. 

The only dilemma he had left was how to give the sweater to the other agent without seeming like some sort of creeper. He really wasn’t a creeper – he just had strong opinions about fashion and a desire to keep his eyes, or anyone else’s for that matter, from dissolving due to the poisonously acidic sight of Clint’s current sartorial choices. 

Really, it was all just in the name of self preservation. 

Anyway. How was he supposed to give the sweater to Clint? He couldn’t just hand it to the archer. 

“Hey, I think that your clothes are absolutely hideous. Take this sweater and burn the rest of your wardrobe, please.”

Yeah. That would go over well. If he just left it on Clint’s doorstep, it would probably be treated as a bomb, or even worse, a cursed item from Loki or some other villain. Clint’s birthday was still months away, and although Christmas was right around the corner, none of them really celebrated it, and it would look strange if he suddenly decided to give Clint a present, especially because he didn’t have presents for anyone else. There were a couple other people who knew about his little (read: gigantic) crush, but giving the archer, and only him, a Christmas present would make the whole thing far too obvious. 

So Phil just kind of left it in his office for a few weeks indecisively. Thankfully fate, luck, or whatever you’d like to call it intervened. 

“Barton, why aren’t you in medical?” Phil asked, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork as the door to his office creaked open. 

“Bruce already examined me. It’s just a flesh wound,” Clint replied, flopping down on the old brown leather couch in the corner of Phil’s office. 

“Dr. Banner has a doctorate of physics, not medicine,” the agent shot back, looking over at Clint and trying to suppress the blush that was certainly reddening his cheeks at the sight of the attractive superhero sprawled over his couch, his hair mussed and chest bare, his slightly too large SHIELD issue cargo pants sliding a little further than they should down his hips. 

“Well, you never specified SHIELD medical,” Clint retorted, smirking at Phil, who tried to give him his best unamused expression in return. 

“I will not be held responsible if you die on that couch,” Phil retorted, turning back to his paperwork and deciding not to press the issue. 

He tried to focus on his paperwork again, falling back into his steady rhythm of typing, punching away at the keys methodically as Clint did… whatever Clint did when he decided to drop in on Phil and wasn’t in a chatty mood. Probably sleep. 

“Damn, your office is _cold_ , Sir,” Clint announced suddenly, breaking Phil’s concentration and reminding him, once again, that the archer currently had no shirt on. “I wish I had brought my sweater or something.” 

The mere mention of the monster that lurked in Clint’s dresser drawers made Phil’s blood run cold, causing him to freeze in terror for a split second before spurring him into action. He practically tore his desk drawer open, rummaging around in it for only a moment before his hand grasped the soft fabric of the sweater he’d bought for Clint.

“You can have this if you’re cold,” the agent replied as casually as he possibly could, tossing the sweater at Clint who caught it easily, a look of befuddlement on his face. 

“Uh, thanks,” the archer replied, unfolding the soft gray cloth and peering at it curiously, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers as he examined it. “But, I mean, I haven’t take a shower yet and I don’t want to get your shirt all dirty…”

“It’s fine,” Phil replied, shrugging slightly. “You can keep it, actually. It doesn’t quite fit me right.”

“Really? Sweet,” Clint replied, a small grin on his face as he pulled the sweater on over his head. “Free clothes are the _best_.”

Phil, who had been valiantly trying to ignore the tantalizing sight of Clint getting dressed in his office, paused for a moment at Clint’s last comment, blinking in realization as an idea came over him. He looked back over at Clint, trying not to be too obvious in his appraisal of the way the fabric of the sweater clung to his chest in all the right places.

“You know, I have a bunch of old clothes that don’t fit anymore if you’d like them,” Phil said, trying to make his tone as casual as possible. 

“Oh, um, well, you don’t have to do that,” Clint answered, and Phil could almost swear that his cheeks were turning a little pink. “It’s not like I need any more clothes or anything.”

Phil resisted the urge to blurt out “Oh, yes you do,” and instead just smiled blandly. 

“No, it’s fine. You’re not imposing or anything – in fact, you’d be helping me out,” Phil replied sedately, still focusing on keeping his eyes on Clint’s face and not his chest, arms, or stomach. “I’ve been meaning to get rid of them for a while, but haven’t quite gotten around to it.”

“Okay then,” Clint said after a moment of consideration, a soft smile spreading across his face and lighting up his eyes in a way which was thoroughly captivating. 

“I’ll bring them over to the tower sometime,” Phil continued, turning back to his paperwork, tearing his eyes away from the object of his affections. 

“Cool,” Clint echoed.

\---

At this point Phil didn’t know what was worse, Clint wearing the clothing he used to wear with its garish colors, crooked seams, gaudy glitter, and so on, or Clint wearing his hand me downs: the slightly worn button downs that were a little too tight across the shoulders, the blue jeans that still had the stiff creases from where they’d sat in Phil’s dresser drawers for years, and the gently used t-shirts that he’d given up upon his employment with SHIELD. Well, at least he hadn’t given Clint his old rangers t-shirt, because if he’d seen Clint lounging around like he usually did with something that was so utterly _his_ , Phil didn’t think he’d be able to suppress his possessive streak, and that was some shit Clint really didn’t need to deal with. 

Well, in the long run it was probably better than those monstrosities that the archer used to wear. It had to be better. There had to be at least some poor innocent soul’s eyes that he’d saved. He’d already gotten a packet of his favorite chocolate doughnuts from Natasha, so he knew that she at least was grateful. 

Of course, it was naïve of him to think that no one else had noticed. 

“So, you and Cupid,” Tony Stark started, a casual smirk plastered on his face as he walked over to Phil who was standing in the lobby of Stark Tower waiting for Natasha. 

“Excuse me?” Phil asked, feigning ignorance.

“I’m just trying to give you my congratulations!” Tony replied, his voice laced with face hurt. “I would totally tap that gorgeously built archer ass if I wasn’t already in a highly committed, monogamous relationship with the stunning Pepper Potts.” 

“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong idea, Stark,” Phil answered calmly, still smiling as blandly as physically possible. “Barton and I are just colleagues.” 

“Yeah, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but friends typically don’t wear each other’s clothes exclusively,” Tony retorted, raising his eyebrows at Phil. “Don’t get me wrong, I steal Bruce’s clothes all the time, but that’s usually to clean up radioactive spills. Not that I’m complaining about Katniss’ wardrobe change, because I was about to burn it all down myself. I mean seriously, where does he even find sweaters that unironically horrible?”

“I’m afraid that that’s a mystery even to me,” Phil replied, mildly disturbed by the fact that he was actually having an almost civil conversation with one Tony Stark. 

“Anyway, what I really wanted to talk to you about is that Pepper’s setting up this charity ball this weekend,” Tony went on, surprisingly serious for once, if a little flippant. “It’s one of those Avengers PR things, and it’s black tie. I was hoping that you might be able to fit Barton into a tux for a couple of hours. Preferably one which highlights his ass so that everyone’s distracted long enough to forget that he likes using exploding arrows which tend to do a considerable amount of property damage.” 

Phil just stared at him for a moment.

“Oh, and you’re invited, too, courtesy of Pepper,” Tony added. 

“I – ”

“Great!” Tony interjected, smiling widely and clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll see both of you then.” 

Fuck.

\---

“Is this… what you’re wearing?” Phil asked tentatively, carefully omitting the words atrocity, horror, eyesore, and crime against fashion from his question as he stood in Clint’s living room on the twenty seventh storey of Stark Tower. 

“Is there something wrong with it?” Clint asked, looking honestly confused as he examined himself in the mirror. 

He was wearing a horribly wrinkled light blue shirt (which actually wasn’t a bad color on him) with the sleeves messily rolled up to his elbows, and tweed slacks that were a little too orange to be called khaki. A bright purple-pink, clip on bowtie was secured loosely to his shirt collar and scuffed, SHIELD issue combat boots adorned his feet. 

“I cannot let you out like this,” Phil muttered to himself, half forgetting that he was speaking out loud and Clint was only a few feet away from him. 

“Is there something wrong with it?” Clint questioned, seeming honestly confused, which tugged at Phil’s heartstrings in strange ways. 

“Well…” Phil started, unsure how exactly to phrase his concerns. “I just don’t think it’s quite what Ms. Potts wants.” 

“I don’t really have anything else formal,” Clint replied, his cheeks slightly flushed as he glanced down at his shoes. “I mean, SHIELD always supplies me with formal clothes for missions and I’ve never really needed any formal clothes until now.”

“No, that’s fine,” Phil said, backpedaling, not having meant to make Clint uncomfortable. “I just don’t think any of my tuxedos will fit you because of your shoulders, and it’s too late to try and get one tailored…”

“Tailored?” Clint yelped, eyes widening. 

“Well, you’re going to have to get one fitted eventually,” Phil replied, a little confused about Clint’s reaction. “It’s not like this fundraiser is a one off thing. Now that you’re an Avenger you’re probably going to be asked to appear at all sorts of galas and events.” 

The archer let out a frustrated sigh and flopped backwards onto his well worn couch, flipping over onto his stomach and burying his face in a lime green colored pillow. Phil tried not to let a small smile escape onto his face at the sight, but was largely unsuccessful. Well, it wasn’t like Clint could see him anyway, with his face pressed into the cushion and all. 

“Look, we still have a few days,” Phil started again, hoping that Clint was actually paying attention to him. “We can find something off the rack or rent one and I’ll pin it for you temporarily so it’ll fit as best as it can.”

“You don’t have to do this,” the archer said, turning his head to look at the other agent. “You probably have work to do and a life to live and stuff to do. I’m sure I can find something on my own. I don’t want to monopolize all your time.” 

“Barton – Clint, I’m doing this because I want to,” Phil replied, shrugging and trying not to sound too much like a looser. After all, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Plus, this way he got to spend extra time with Clint. “I mean, I’m practically required to correct your fashion sense. I might get my status as a gay male revoked otherwise.”

Oops. He hadn’t said that out loud, had he?

The only signifier that he’d actually uttered the words was the way Clint’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. The archer didn’t comment on Phil’s slip of tongue, though. He merely got up from the couch, stretching his arms and shoulders before walking over to Phil. 

“Okay. I give up. Teach me your fashion ways, Sensei,” he replied flippantly, a good natured smirk on his lips. 

Phil wasn’t sure if he was happy or disappointed by Clint’s reaction. He decided not to overanalyze it. 

“That’s Coulson-sensei to you, Barton,” Phil retorted, leading the way out of the apartment. 

\---

Three hours later, they still hadn’t found a tux that fit Clint’s broad shoulders and muscled biceps. Honestly, Phil was almost ready to call it quits. He’d never spent this long shopping for one article of clothing in his life. (Multiple items, yes, but not just _one_.) Clint looked like he’d been done an hour and a half ago, but had somehow soldiered on through, forcing a light commentary which was just about all that was keeping Phil going at this point. 

“There’s just one more place I want to try, and then we can give up, okay?” Phil said, hoping that they’d finally have some luck on their side. “It’s just a couple blocks away from the tower – ”

He was cut off by the loud buzzing of his phone. For a moment, the agent considered ignoring it, but in the end, he just smiled apologetically at Clint and pulled the phone out of his pocket, cursing as he saw Deputy Director Maria Hill’s name on the caller ID. 

“Look, Sir, why don’t you go off and save the world while I check out the last place?” Clint proposed, clearly trying to look less tired than he was. 

“But – ”

“It’ll be fine,” the archer interrupted. “I’m sure that whatever Hill needs to say is more important anyway.”

With that, he shot Phil one more smile and walked away. 

\---

Three days later, Phil found himself back in New York City having survived his flight from Norway, back in his apartment, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling after having slept for twelve hours straight. He was debating whether he really wanted to Pepper’s charity ball which was supposed to start in about an hour and a half. So far he couldn’t bring himself to move. 

Then he heard someone knock on the door. 

For a moment he thought he’d misheard, but after lying in bed for a few more moments, the knocking repeated itself, a little louder this time. Phil groaned and hauled himself out of bed, hoping that if he didn’t look presentable, he at least looked terrifying enough to scare away whoever was at the door. 

He had a grumpy retort perfectly planned, however the words caught in his throat as soon as he opened the door and he fervently wished that he’d had the sense to at least change out of his pajamas before answering the door. 

In his doorway stood Clint Barton, dressed in a perfectly fitted black tuxedo, complete with a crisp waistcoat and subtle, silver cuff links. The only trace of Clint’s typical fashion flare was the royal purple bowtie tied expertly around his neck. 

“Hi,” Clint greeted him awkwardly, clearly trying not to gawk at Phil’s state of undress too openly. “I just, ah, wanted to thank you for your help with… this.” 

He motioned uncomfortably to his formal attire, still not quite making eye contact with Phil, who was still gaping at him openly. 

“Nat said I looked debonair, and apparently that’s a good thing, so…” the other agent trailed off, peering at Phil through his thick eyelashes.

“I can’t handle this right now,” Phil announced suddenly, still staring at Clint wide eyed and rooted to the spot. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Clint asked, surprised. 

“What? No!” Phil replied, letting out a frustrated huff. “You’re just so gorgeous it’s unfair, and my brain just cannot comprehend all of – _you_ at the present moment.”

“Gorgeous?” Clint parroted, sounding even more surprised than before. 

“Yes, gorgeous! Gorgeous, handsome, debonair, whatever you want to call it,” Phil grumbled tiredly, waving his hand at Clint. “Just go to Stark’s party before I jump you or something.” 

“Well, I was kind of hoping you’d go with me,” Clint replied, his cheeks noticeably pink. “To Stark’s party thing, that is.”

“Like a friend thing, or…?” Phil asked after a moment, a faint ember of hope flaring in his chest, his heart beating faster. 

“I’d kind of like it to be a more than friends sort of thing, but if – ” 

Phil cut Clint off, pulling him into a sudden kiss. Clint still for a moment before responding eagerly, wrapping his arms around Phil’s neck and pressing his body up against the other agent’s. They stayed like that for a while, Phil delving into Clint’s mouth with his tongue, hot and wet, a little sloppy but fierce. They eventually broke apart to catch their breath, still clinging to each other, standing in the doorway of Phil’s apartment. 

“Do I still have to go to Stark’s fundraiser?” Clint asked suddenly. 

“I want to say no, but I think people will notice if you’re not there,” Phil replied, but he didn’t release Clint. “Do it for Pepper.” 

“You should come with me,” Clint repeated, making no move to break out of Phil’s embrace. 

“And spend hours sexually frustrated, watching you walk around dressed like that?” Phil retorted.

“I’ll let you undress me afterwards if you come with,” Clint replied, shooting Phil a particularly devious smirk. 

“I think I’ll go get ready now,” Phil announced.


End file.
